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Gray Matter
Zane Ransom
A recent graduate of kindergarten at the Waldorf School, and an enthusiastic consumer of Batman underwear, this blue-eyed California boy, in most ways, is obviously still a child.
Yet, Zane Ransom Lindeman, of Altadena, consistently fields ground balls cleanly; he throws accurately to the correct base and, at the plate, has the strongest, level swing of any seven-year-old in my long memory.
For years, he has been a solitary backyard batter. Indeed, his father briefly was on a first name basis with the local glazier, who for a price replaces windows shattered by errant fly balls.
Now, bulletins from the Pasadena Little League scene sound like this: “Zane hit one that may still be rolling…Zane hit a homer and was actually sitting on the bench by the time they got the ball back to the infield.”
To the profound delight of his grandfather, the hero of this essay has become a fourth generation of family celebrants of the national pastime, baseball. Zane’s bedroom, according to reliable reports, is a miniature Cooperstown, N.Y. (home to baseball’s Hall of Fame Museum), with posters, books, programs from major and minor league games witnessed and, of course, shoeboxes stuffed with baseball trading cards.
Once, when a family conversation focused around a certain date, a child’s voice was heard, “That’s Willie Mays’ birthday, you know?” (Columnist George Will writes, “An obsessive-compulsive fascination with numbers is an occupational hazard of baseball fans.”)
Consider, our beguiling tyke does not yet read competently, nonetheless he can summarize, and interpret, a newspaper box score as though it was his job. Do you know how many times the late Jackie Robinson stole home? Ask Zane Lindeman, who knows the answer is 19.
To sit beside Zane at a major league game is to witness, and comprehend, the purest joy of an unrestrained boy. Recently, his baseball fervor reached a new zenith. Zane’s team of seven and eight years olds, the make-believe Cincinnati Reds, won a very first playoff game. After a long stretch of losing, this was a moment to rejoice. Slugger Zane and a teammate sought to dump a cooler of ice water on top of the coach, but as his father narrates:
“All the boys are screaming and milling around and they could only get the cooler to the coach’s knees…because it was heavy and ungainly and, so, their coach only got wet shoes.”
“That incident,” continues Les Lindeman, “was a reminder of who these players are. They can’t even pick a cooler up to dump on the coach because they’re still children. They’re all wearing Batman underwear, for Pete’s sakes.”
Why, you ask finally, am I imposing upon your good graces by blabbing on about a favorite grandchild, one among six? Because I want you to tell me, please, about your special grandkids! The 11th annual Cute Grandbaby contest is drawing to a close—and you, Sir or Madame, have been absent without excuse. The $50 prize can be yours, merely for sending me (via
email or snail
mail) an anecdote or three (150 words or more) confirming your grandchild is indeed special.
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Outrageous Associations
